


(Dis)connection

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2019-11-25 23:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18173150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: A reminder of the fragility of life…





	(Dis)connection

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to my favourite peanut. (Title #1, decided.)
> 
> Disclaimer: Not my characters, but I am the one who puts them into these twisted scenarios.

It was a simple task to perform. Set phone alarm for indecently early hour; wake when alarm begins to ring. Bag was already packed—not that there was much to pack for week-long rendezvous after three weeks apart—and all of the other difficult tasks associated had already been handled by the man who would be waiting to take her into his arms upon touchdown.

Setting the alarm was easy enough. Getting to sleep due to nerves… that was a whole different story. All she could think about was his stern reproach: don't miss the plane. Don't miss the plane.

She didn't want to disappoint. Disappointment was almost worse than anger.

………

A weekend off, or at least most of it; then to have her there with him in the mornings and evening for the next week. The thought of having here there made the tedious paperwork here in the Netherlands worth his while; he had been called away from the more satisfying but also riskier work in Liberia to do it. Given the stint in Liberia was slated to run at least three more weeks beyond his time here at the Hague, he was not about to pass up the opportunity to spend a little time with her.

His only worry was that she would fail his one, most important instruction: not to miss the plane. He had a very small window of opportunity to meet her at the airport. Given that he had made very clear the importance of her arriving during that window, he felt confident she would make the plane, land on time, and they could be reunited at last.

Traffic to the airport was light, which was a blessing, and he was just beginning to think that everything would go as smooth as silk… at least until he approached Arrivals. Only then did he get the slightest inkling that something was amiss.

Security seemed to be on alert. There appeared to be far more police present than on his arrival a few days prior, and they all seemed to be speaking on radios. Even though he had no idea what was going on, something about the situation was deeply troubling.

"Pardon me," he asked one of those police force members, a young woman with a radio close to her mouth. "Um. _Spreek je_ _Engels_?"

She smiled at his attempt at Dutch. "Yes, sir," she said. "I speak English."

He felt a rush of gratitude that he wouldn't have to try to stumble in a language he barely knew when he was already starting to feel a little panicked. "What's going on?" he asked. "What's happening?"

"It would seem that an inbound plane has been diverted," she said; she then identified the airline on which Bridget had flown. 

His stomach developed a very sudden and inconvenient knot. "From where?"

"From London City Airport, it seems."

Now it fell to the floor; that was her point of departure. "What happened?"

"We're trying to determine that, sir. Please go to the counter. They are updating family and loved ones there."

Something about the way she worded that sent a chill running up his spine. _Family and loved ones_ , he thought. _Almost like 'next of kin'_. "I'll do that. Thank you."

He turned away, then back to the police officer, who pointed in the direction of the counter by making a jabbing motion with the radio antenna. He nodded in gratitude and went to the counter, where he was met by a smiling blonde who looked like she was under a lot of strain.

"I'm here for information on the flight from London City," he said. "Flight 895. I was here to pick up a passenger."

"Name?" she asked, fingers poised over a keyboard for the computer terminal.

"Bridget Jones."

She glanced up. "Sorry," she said. "I meant your name."

"Mark Darcy," he said, then spelled it for her. "What can you tell me?"

"We're preparing to make an announcement, sir," she said. "If you'd care to wait down there with the others…" She gestured to the end of the ticket counter where a small group had gathered. "We'll be with you shortly."

He nodded, then again went where he was directed. The air of nervousness and uncertainty was palpable. That only grew as the group of about twenty people were asked to then relocate into a private room, where seats were arranged and a podium with a microphone were set up.

An airline spokesman came in; with him was the police woman with whom Mark had spoken to upon his arrival. They were both ashen. Mark did not like the look of it at all.

When the man began to speak, there was no preamble; as he spoke, the rumble of gasps and sobs began to build: "We lost radio contact with Flight 895 carrying approximately one hundred passengers from London City Airport approximately twenty minutes into the flight. We have received a report that a plane has crashed into the North Sea, east of Ipswitch. Investigators and rescue personnel have been dispatched. We have not yet confirmed that the plane that went down is Flight 895 but it seems likely to be the case." He paused to take in a breath. "We hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. We don't know yet if there are casualties—"

Mark felt the static building in his ears until the words the spokesman was saying were inaudible. Plane crash. Flight 895 from London. Bridget.

He felt disconnected from his body. He felt like he was slipping into shock. On impulse he grabbed his mobile on the off-chance it had rung, he hadn't heard it and had missed a message from Bridget. There were no missed calls, no indications of waiting messages or texts. He dialled her number. It only rang once when it went silent; his heart was pounding in anticipation of the 'hello' to come next. It was short-lived, though, because it rolled immediately to her outbound message. He disconnected without saying a word. The immediacy with which it went to voice mail told him the phone itself was not available.

_She could merely be engaged in a call_ , he thought. _Maybe she's trying to call me._ He had impressed upon her the importance of letting him know when she'd be late if she was going to be more than fifteen minutes, and in recent weeks she had demonstrated she understood because she had called every time without fail. With his insistence that she be on that plane…. He sank back into the chair, tried dialling again. The result was the same, though this time he left a message.

"Bridget," he said quietly in an unsteady voice. "Call me." Again he disconnected, then returned his phone to his suit jacket pocket. He closed his eyes, raised his chin, and took in a deep breath before letting it out in a great sigh.

………

It was not long before everyone's worst fears were confirmed: the plane that had gone down was indeed Flight 895 from London City. The lack of information on survivors seemed to Mark to suggest something very grim indeed.

His mind raced with dark thoughts: had she told her parents about the last minute trip? Her friends? Under the worst possible circumstances, he would he have to be the one to deliver the awful news, and a crash in the sea might mean no recovery and no closure.

He pulled out the phone and dialled her number again. The results were the same. "Bridget," he said again, this time slightly more tersely in an effort to rein in his emotions. "If you hear this, call me immediately."

He had one final inspiration, one final surge of hope: he rang her flat's phone. With every ring his heart beat even faster, until at last the answerphone kicked in. He fought tears in the corner of his eyes; he rang off then rang it again to the same result. He repeated what he'd said to her mobile, equally terse, but his tone was verging on angry; as he ended the call, he closed his eyes against the tears that threatened. _It cannot end this way_ , he thought. _It cannot._

He sat for forty-five minutes in this nerve-wracking state before they received the word that all in the room had been dreading: they had not located any survivors. "We will begin making official contact very shortly," said the airline spokesman in a grave tone; it was obvious he was not unaffected. "You can rest assured we will be thoroughly investigating the cause. This is a terrible tragedy and I am deeply sorry for your loss."

He fell into a state of shock. He barely remembered the conversations around himself, nor did he recall being escorted to where the car and driver was waiting for him. He had a thought while riding back to the hotel that he should have enquired directly at the ticket counter about the passenger manifest; they were not yet married, but he had listed himself as her contact when booking the ticket. Resignedly he realised that his mobile would likely be ringing soon enough with the official call.

In silence he returned to the room, trying not to think about all of the things he'd have to do next, resisting the urge to have a drink to soothe the ache he felt.

The drink had other ideas.

Within minutes of his arrival, a crisp rap on the door surprised him from his thoughts. Cautiously, tentatively, he approached. "Yes?" he asked.

"Room service, sir, with your order."

He furrowed his brow—and then he remembered. He swung open the door; the young man standing there in hotel livery had a rolling cart on which sat a bottle of wine ensconced in ice as well as two glasses. Alongside it was a box of Belgian chocolates. He knew the wine to be the finest chardonnay in the cellar because he had specifically asked the sommelier to choose it. Not that he cared for chardonnay—

Mark smiled, then stood to the side to allow the porter in. 

"Where shall I put this for you, sir?"

"Just—right over there's fine." Mark gestured towards the table. 

He held up a corkscrew. "Shall I—" 

"Yes. Thank you."

The porter was gone for several minutes at least before Mark made a move towards the bottle; his eyes focused on a bead of condensation slipping down the neck of the bottle. He reached, took a glass in hand, then filled it to the rim with the golden wine.

"To you, darling," he murmured, lifting the glass in a silent toast before he downed the vintage. It was actually very fine indeed, and after emptying it he set it down on the tray again. He carried the whole thing to the coffee table then sat on the sofa, suddenly feeling like the entire weight of the world was resting on his shoulders. He poured another glass; memories of his time with her, even time before they were together, played through his mind like snippets from a film reel. He thought of that first meeting—New Year's Day, with him in a bitterly bad mood and she (he knew this now) nursing a vicious, acidic hangover; out in a boat on the lake, hair lit like gold by the sun, laughing and looking at him over the top rim of her sunglasses; in the middle of a snowy street, dressed in nothing but trainers, pants, a tank and an insufficient cardigan sweater, folding as naturally as anything into his arms and into the warmth of his coat…

He had managed to drain the glass again, and as he poured a third, the last of his defences fell; the tears in his eyes brimmed over and rolled freely down over his cheeks. How would he get through his days without her? If only his last words to her hadn't been quite so harsh, implying that she had to be on that plane or else…

He gazed out into the evening sky through the window of his hotel suite for what seemed like an eternity, but was actually just as long as it took him to finish the glass. He was just considering how awful the days to come would be—days, weeks, months—when he swore he heard the suite's door open and close. He knew that in his somewhat inebriated state he must have been imagining things. After all, no one else would be coming into the room. 

"I'm sorry," said a woman's quiet voice. Bridget's voice? That couldn't be. There was then a quiet thud. "I thought you'd be so angry." Footsteps, then a weight that settled beside him on the sofa into which he had slumped, but the silence returned. He did not want to look to the sofa beside him, to the empty spot that was surely there, because he was clearly hallucinating. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

"You're not real," he said quietly between gritted teeth.

"I'm what?—Mark, did you drink that bottle all by yourself?"

He brought his brow together, then dared to look at last. She looked tired; her hair was pulled back into a barrette and she was dressed in what he thought must have been her favourite outfit: black tights, black top, orange miniskirt. Most of all, she looked quite solid. Quite real.

"Bridget?" he asked, his voice cracking, pushing himself up. "Is that you?"

She looked at him askance. "You're not angry that I missed the plane?"

He blinked rapidly. "Angry?" he repeated, then reached out to place his hand on her face. Solid indeed. Soft. Very real. And most importantly of all, alive and well. Fast as lightning he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her so that she was pressed up against him. 

"I'm very glad to see you too," she said, "but I'm finding it hard to—"

_Breathe_ , he thought; he released her slightly and pressed his lips to hers, kissing her with a desperation he had rarely felt. He then drew back again to meet her gaze. "You missed the plane," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"Yes," she said slowly, as if speaking to a daft child.

"No, no," he said, taking her face, her beautiful face, between his hands. "You missed the plane that did not make it to this airport."

"Didn't make it? What do you mean—"

She hadn't known, didn't know until that moment, that the plane she had been slated to take had ended up in the sea. The realisation dawned across her features, her mouth dropped open in a slight O, and she began to tremble.

"I thought I'd lost you," he said quietly, then kissed her again; under his ministrations she calmed into his kiss, his touch, and responded with building enthusiasm. In a swift moment, as steadily as he could manage, he swept her up into his arms and carried her directly to the bed in which he thought he'd be sleeping alone. After slipping out of his own clothes at record speed, he divested her of every layer of maddening clothing, placing kisses on every soft plane as he did. He brought his kiss back to her lips, and as he did, lying beside her, his fingers traced over her shoulder and to her breast, taking hold of it with his palm and rolling his thumb over the hardened nipple. She gasped.

He broke away to take that firm tip between his lips, into his mouth, as his hand slipped around her hip to cup her backside. From beside him she arched herself into him. He pushed her shoulder so that she rested on her back and kissed a trail from one breast to the other, swirling his tongue around the hard bead, grazing with his teeth; she moaned and exhaled unsteadily, reaching to thread her fingers through his hair as he kneaded her bottom. She then grasped and brought her hand to his shoulder, her nails biting into the skin there as she attempted to pull him back up towards her. This action spoke louder than words.

He was not quite done yet with celebrating her, though. Every inch of her.

He moved from her breast to plant a series of kisses along the curve of her stomach, relishing greatly in what she deemed imperfection, before reaching her hip. Her insistent hand fell back to the bed and she sighed as his teeth grazed gently. His tongue poked out to trace a line from her hip downward, and as he did this her legs slipped apart almost as if in an involuntary invitation. He enthusiastically accepted it.

She moaned again, quite loudly this time, as he dove down into the warmth and wetness between her legs. He alternated his attention between the bud of nerves that made her whimper, and slowly, languidly caressing her; the increasingly desperate sound of her utterances, the shiver along her limbs, told him she was very close to finding her release. As much as he wanted her, he fought down his own building desire and focused on pleasing her completely.

Her fingers grasped the sheets; she dug her heels into the mattress; with a final push against her she cried out and he felt with no ambiguity the waves of her climax. Still he kept at it; if he could bring her round again—

"Mark, dammit, come up here," she groaned.

Once again he did as she bid; he got his knees beneath him as quickly as he could and pushed himself forward. As he kissed her she seemingly purred with satisfaction; to his surprise she grabbed him, reminding him exactly how badly he ached for her. Impishly she tugged. He let out what sounded almost like a growl.

"Come on," she gasped.

He didn't need to be asked twice. He laid against her; she lifted her knees; and with a caress and a quick manoeuvre he was in her. As he did, as he heard a protracted moan issue dually from himself as well as her, something primal kicked into high gear. He thrust hard again and again, feeling the sweat beading along his hairline, kissing her mouth, then moving his lips along her jaw to nuzzle into her neck, biting her lobe gently.

Gutturally he groaned as he felt his climax building; the raking of her nails along his back, the naughty little mutterings whispered hotly in his ear, served to drive him on. It was when she traced her nails over his buttocks, when she ran her tongue along his own earlobe, that his own release triggered, and he exhaled as he quivered from head to toe while he came.

When he was spent he canted off to the side, drawing her with him, kissing her deeply, passionately, reverently. _Oh, my love;_ _you make me glad to be alive._

She chuckled lightly, making him wonder if maybe she could either read his thoughts, or his ability to distinguish thinking from speaking had been blurred by endorphins. "Pretty glad to be alive too," she said shakily, caressing his face then kissing him again. She then settled into the crook of his arm, her cheek resting against his shoulder, her hand splayed against his chest. After some moments in this happy state, quietly she spoke. "Completely terrifying. Feels like… such a narrow escape. The more I think about it the more it freaks me out, Mark. What happened?"

In the briefest way possible he explained what he knew, described his day from hell, and as he told the story observed she looked ever more shaken. "What happened on your end?" he asked.

"Set my phone to wake up. I thought I didn't hear it. I did hear my other phone ringing, though, woke in a panic, and jumped out of bed in time to hear your answerphone message ring off. I was going to do 1471 but thought you might be angry enough to tell me not to bother, and… I thought it would just be better for me to beg for forgiveness in person. So I got dressed, rang for a taxi, grabbed my bag and went to the airport."

He tightened his embrace, and planted a kiss on the top of her head. "Darling," he said sternly, "I specifically _asked_ you in the message to call me."

"I know, and because of that I decided to call you en route but that's when I realised my phone's battery was dead, and _that's_ why I hadn't heard the alarm go off." He was grateful for once for her propensity to forget to charge her mobile. "I would have called from the airport if I'd had time… and if I could've remembered your mobile number. They let me trade in my ticket and I got on the next flight."

"Didn't they mention anything about the crash?"

"They probably didn't want to freak me out, which—I'm glad they didn't." She kissed his arm tenderly. "Don't think it had made it to the news yet; at least, not that I heard. Then I got here—things in the terminal seemed a bit quiet, but still nothing on the news, at least not that I could understand. I had a taxi take me to the hotel. I'd remembered it was the Hotel Manhattan—because _Manhattan_ , durr—and when I got to the front desk they had a key waiting for me."

After she finished her explanation the silence within the room was resounding; he was very aware of his own breathing, and of hers. He let out a long exhale. He was very, _very_ grateful.

"Mark?" she asked, propping herself up on one elbow.

"Hm?" he asked, meeting her gaze.

"Can we order more wine? Feel like I need a drink."

"How about champagne?" he asked. "I feel like celebrating."

She grinned. "I love the way you think," she said, then dropped to kiss him again. "I love _you_."

He brought his hand to her face, curled his fingers around the base of her neck, then pulled her roughly to a kiss again. He wanted to make love to her again, champagne be damned; he felt like he had been given the most extraordinary gift imaginable and he didn't want to let her go for even a moment. From the way she reciprocated, matched him kiss for kiss, caressed his skin as he caressed hers, she was willing to put the champagne aside for the time being too. She pushed on his shoulder though to roll him back so that she was lying on top of him. The feel of her hair brushing on his face, his neck, as she kissed him was tantalising; the feel of her fingers brushing down his abdomen to reach between his legs was exhilarating. She had a firm grasp, stroking him, pumping him, causing him to buck up into her touch.

"Fair play," she murmured.

With that she scuttled down, even before he could protest, zinging her nails along his thighs as she placed a kiss on his very erect self. Before he could even draw another breath she had him in her mouth, swirling her tongue, making good use of her teeth to elicit shudders of anticipation and excitement. She was hastening his climax by leaps and bounds, and he tried to voice that he much preferred to do so while joined with her, but with the way she was touching and caressing him, he was powerless to stop himself from coming. She did not cease what she was doing until he'd finished, then crawled atop his panting self to straddle his waist and kiss him with great tenderness. As much as he wanted to return the favour again, he was exhausted; with the stress of the day and not one but two rounds of mind-bending sex, he could hardly keep his eyes open.

"Told you I loved you," she whispered before he fell fast asleep.

………

When he awoke, it was still dark and he was covered with a sheet. He was also alone. He sat up, panic washing over him; he had a horrible feeling that he'd dreamt the whole thing, that she had not shown up in the room unexpectedly and happily still alive. "Bridget?" he called out, his voice slightly panicked.

"In here," her voice called back. Panic was replaced by relief. "Just finished running the bath."

He rose from the bed and walked towards where she was; dressed in a complimentary robe, she'd brought in the chocolates he'd ordered before as well as the champagne she must have ordered from room service while he'd been dozing. "How long was I sleeping?" he asked.

"Not long," she said with a smile. He strode near to her. "You must have needed that."

"Not as much as I needed you." He reached and untied the sash of the robe. "You don't need to let your friends or your parents know you're all right, do you?" he asked, running his hands over her shoulders to slip the fabric back. 

"Hm, I didn't really tell anyone where we were going, just that you and I needed time away," she said, running her fingers along his waist as she pulled herself close to him. "I'll check in tomorrow, if I can get my phone charged."

He chuckled. "You can borrow mine if you can't."

"Okay, if I can remember their numbers," she said. She got up on her toes and gave him a little kiss. "How about let's get in the bath and enjoy some champers?"

The bath was one of those large, recessed spa-type baths that was sized to accommodate two adults, and she had run it with a generous portion of bubbles. The sight of it made him grin. "Let's," he said, smoothing down her tousled blonde locks. "Heaven forbid the water get cold or the champagne get warm."

This elicited a chuckle as she stepped away, then turned to dip her toe into the water. "God, it's perfect," she said, then stepped in and reclined back into the water. He was content for a moment to gaze down upon her—his eyes were drawn particularly to the pink tips of her breasts which tantalisingly poked through the bubbles—before stepping in to join her. It did not escape his notice that her gaze followed him down.

As soon as he sat, he turned to pour the champagne, which had already been opened. "How did I not hear that?"

She smiled. "You must have been really out of it," she said with a wink. "Had the porter do it. I'm always afraid it's going to explode."

He handed her a flute, then took one for himself. "For everyday miracles," he said, "and especially for the not-so-everyday ones."

They touched the edges of their glasses together, then drank back the champagne. She was evidently delighted judging by the happy sound she made upon finishing; the tip of her tongue peeked out at the corners. "Fantastic," she said, setting down the emptied flute.

"Worth every penny," he said, setting his own flute down, then he reached to pull her near. She went towards him then slipped her arms around his neck, kissing him again. His hands slipped over her skin, over her shoulders and down her back as she floated over him. He was feeling the near-miss acutely again, and he said softly, "I'm so glad that you're here. In every possible sense I could mean."

She smiled, then laughed. "I don't know," she said. "Two shags already—seems pretty obvious one 'sense', ahem, _rises_ above the other." 

It was clear she was teasing; however, he thought about her comment pertaining to turnabout and fair play. "Bridget, you're absolutely right," he said with sternness in his voice, and a very serious expression on his face. "I suppose that's enough for the week, then."

"Enough?" she squeaked. "Enough what? What do you mean? Sex?"

He pulled his lips tight. "Yes," he said stoically.

She burst out with a laugh. "Oh, yeah, _right_ ," she said.

He was more determined than ever to maintain his position. "I'm serious."

" _Right_ ," she said again. "Let's see how _firm_ you are on this, Mr Darcy."

She placed one hand on each shoulder, then moved herself so that she was floating, but at just such a level that her abdomen hovered just over his pelvis, just close enough to touch that portion of his anatomy that had a tendency towards buoyancy. She then pushed herself away, and the sensation of her skin brushing against him so lightly was nearly electric; he stifled a groan and resisted the urge to push his hips up. She then pulled in closer to him again, demonstrating exactly what she meant to do; slowly she moved back and forth until he could no longer claim to be unaffected.

Her smirk (as well as a firm hold on him) told him she'd won. He didn't much care; they both benefited. "You do so love being right," he murmured, then reached for her hips.

At this she giggled then, as he pulled her forward, kissed him quite deliberately and ardently, teasing his lips with her tongue, nipping gently with her teeth. She straddled his lap then allowed him to pull her flush to him, gasping as he entered her. She linked her arms around his neck again; he arched his hips up in counterpoint to his hands pulling her down to him. The water splashed around their shoulders as they went faster and faster, and her monosyllabic utterances grew more and more impassioned until she moaned and shivered as she came.

"Keep going," she gasped.

How could he argue with such a directive? He carried on pulling himself up into her, pulling her down onto him, as she focused her attention on running the tip of her tongue along then gently biting the lobe of his ear, breathing hotly against his throat; as he tensed and felt his own release he held her firmly down onto him.

He then collapsed back, allowing his arms to fall away from her. She stretched along the length of him, running her fingers over the small of his back and his bottom, keeping herself pressed against him. She kissed him again, then sighed contentedly. 

"Maybe I should narrowly escape death more often," she said; he could hear the joking tone in her voice, but he could also tell she was still very shaken by the day.

"I love you," he said softly, though with conviction.

"I love you too," she replied, then made a sound that reminded him of a cat's purr. "I think I've just found heaven, and it's right here in this hot tub. Bubbles and you."

"And champagne and chocolate."

"Oh," she said, sitting upright, still straddling his thighs. "I forgot about the chocolate!"

With a low-throated chuckle he sat up too, then reached for the chocolates. He plucked one from the tray and held it up for her to eat. The heat from his fingers left chocolate behind; naturally he was obliged to hold them up to allow her to lick them off.

If they were lucky, they'd get to actual bathing.

………

Bridget should have been sleeping. After her busy day then extremely active evening, she would have thought she'd have dropped to sleep as immediately as Mark had. She hadn't. Instead, she stared up at the ceiling, consumed with conflicting thoughts:

She felt grateful, happy, and bloody lucky to have escaped the tragedy of the crash.

She felt a sort of survivor's guilt, too.

Most of all, she felt so very sad that the crash had even happened. She wanted to know what had gone wrong; maybe then she would have a sense of closure. Perhaps the news had information by now as to what was going on. 

Quietly she slipped out of the bed and gingerly walked to the main room of the suite. There was a television in the corner so she went over and pushed the button on the front.

She should have considered locating the remote control, first.

The last person to have watched the television had left the volume turned up very loud, and the room was filled with the booming voice of an announcer speaking very articulately—or at least, she assumed he was, as his Dutch sounded very crisp. She pounded the button again to get the television to switch off again, and felt rather than heard Mark's footsteps as he raced into the room and towards her.

Just as he got near, the television cooperated and the room went totally silent.

Mark looked completely disorientated. "What on earth are you doing?" he asked, blinking rapidly.

"I wanted to see the news," she said sombrely. "The remote's missing."

He scowled, then it became clear he understood her meaning. He strode towards her, slipped his arm around her shoulder, then kissed the top of her head. "Let's use my laptop. We can check the news online."

Together they walked to the desk where Mark had his laptop cabled down. He sat, entered his password, then held out his hand. Without words he guided her to sit with him, mostly on his left thigh; he curved his hand around her hip then clicked on his link for the BBC's news site.

After a few more clicks they found the story they'd hoped to find. There wasn't much to it that they didn't already know, but there was a notation that the plane was not full, and that investigators were almost certain that the cause of the crash was the sudden failure of the majority of on-board electrical systems, which also explained the loss of radio contact with the airports' control towers. They didn't believe it was terror-related, but recovery of the so-called 'black box' would in all likelihood confirm this.

"Those poor people!" she said, her voice quivering. "How scary. I never want to fly again. Can we drive home?"

He held her tight and kissed her cheek. "Think of all the times you've flown before, love, and nothing has happened. This was an aberration."

"I know," she said, then swivelled on his lap to wrap her arms around his neck and embrace him. "I'm just as happy to be staying the week with you."

"It'll give you time to relax," he said. "Something that I'm all too happy to oblige." She sighed as he nuzzled into her neck to kiss it; she adjusted herself and straddled his lap, all too happy to tilt her head to the side and let him lavish her with the attention of his lips, tongue, and teeth—

The shrill combination of the vibrating and ringing of his mobile broke them apart. "I should… see who that is," he murmured. "Ostensibly, I'm reachable."

She nodded. He leaned and palmed the phone. 

"It's my mother," he said then pressed the button to answer it. "Mother, hello."

Bridget could hear Elaine Darcy's voice through the earpiece, saying her son's name, then something else she couldn't quite make out.

"Heard?" he said sharply. "Heard what?" As her voice went on, his eyes darting back to Bridget, then he smiled, looking relieved. "No, she's here with me, and she's fine. She…" He paused. "She wasn't on that flight."

A clearly audible "Oh, thank God" issued forward from Mark's phone.

After they said their goodbyes, he ended the call and set the phone back down. "I'd forgotten I told her you were flying to see me today," he said a little sheepishly, smoothing her hair down with his hand before settling them on her waist. "She was calling to see… well, before raising the alarm with your parents. I didn't think it was necessary to explain everything."

She nodded. There was no sense in worrying the whole of Grafton Underwood… and there was no sense in continuing to wallow in dark waters. "Now," she said, "I think you were in the middle of something very, very important."

He smiled, then leaned forward and delivered a languorous open-mouthed kiss to her neck before trailing a line to her ear then over to her lips. She didn't even notice his fingers weren't grasping her hips anymore until she felt one of his hands on her inner thigh, fingertips teasing between her legs. She gasped. Her feet found purchase on the legs of the desk chair and pulled herself closer, feeling the distinct pressure of something else on her thigh. She chuckled throatily; why not have sex on the chair? This was turning into more of a shag marathon than she had imagined.

"Darling," he whispered; his fingers pushed forward, knuckle brushing against her and making her moan. The fingers of his other hand pressed into her arse as he reclaimed her mouth again. She lifted herself up slightly then, with the guidance of her own hand, she descended onto him.

It was his turn to moan. Both hands went to her hips as she rocked back and forth; she took great advantage of the benefits of gravity. The difference in their heights was also minimised, and she was able to continue kissing him wherever she wanted: his lips, his chin, his throat, the curve of his neck.

His breath became stuttered; his mouth went to the shoulder just closest to her neck. What was a gentle nibble became a slightly painful bite as he stiffened and came; she cried out, arched into him as she came too.

"Sorry, darling," he said, his voice rough and papery; his fingers gingerly touched where there undoubtedly was a semi-circle of teeth marks.

"Oh, no harm done," she said, trying to recover her own breath. "Or is there?"

He chuckled. "No, no blood drawn."

"Good," she said, embracing him, snuggling into his neck. "Was wondering if you were turning into a vampire on me."

She felt his low laughter. "Making up for the sedentary couple of weeks without you, I guess."

"I'm not complaining," she said, tracing fingers over his shoulder, before pushing herself back to meet his gaze. "Though I am feeling a bit like a snack."

He smiled, then dropped down to playfully graze his teeth on her shoulder again. "You're my favourite snack," he teased.

"I meant I am feeling like I _need_ a bit of—"

"I know exactly what you meant, darling," he interrupted. "It's still true."

She gave him a peck on his lips before raising up and off of his lap. Her muscles were a bit sore not only after all of the previous shagging, but particularly from sitting on the chair in that way, so she reached up her arms over her head and arched back to stretch out. As she did, she felt him take her by the waist then plant a kiss on her navel. She looked down at him inquisitively.

"Well," he said in all innocence, "there it was."

She laughed, then held out her hand to help him to stand; not that he needed her assistance, but she figured if she wanted something from room service, encouraging him to plant kisses on her stomach was not the way to go about it.

………

As the days passed, Mark obviously had work to do, but he found plenty of time to see the sights with her. She even accompanied him to The Hague on one occasion; she made him chuckle (intentional attempts at humour, and not) with her running commentary, and he rewarded her that evening with a romantic dinner and stroll through the city before a night of tender lovemaking.

"God, how I've missed you," he said close to her ear, spooned up behind her, just before he drifted off to sleep. "You have the most refreshing sense of humour of anyone I've ever known."

It wasn't the sexiest thing a man had ever said to her, but she felt smug about it all the same.

As her departure date approached, however, she became ever more apprehensive about the flight home. She knew logically that Mark was right; that the odds of what had happened to the previous flight happening again were very slim, indeed. It didn't mean that she liked the thought of it any more.

The following Saturday morning, almost exactly a week after she'd arrived, she packed up her suitcase in preparation of leaving. He noticed that he had done the same with his own, but she reasoned he probably was catching his own flight back to Liberia at the same time. "Suppose we ought to leave," he said. "Have you got everything?"

She nodded. Both she and he had done a sweep of the room and found nothing more of hers. If she'd left anything behind, it had intended on not being found.

They checked out of the hotel—she tried not to think about the bill's total as he settled the transaction at the counter—then went out to where the valet had parked the car. It was a different car than they'd used during the week, and she realised that was because this was not the car with the driver in which they'd travelled previously; Mark would be driving this car. As the porters packed their bags into the boot, Mark said, "Perhaps you should hold your carry-on in the car with you."

She nodded. It was not that great a distance to the airport from where they were but she never knew when she might want a bit of chewing gum or a cigarette before she boarded the plane. 

They didn't say much as he drove, but she didn't have much to say; she was not going to see him for another three weeks after they parted for their respective flights, and didn't want to fill the time with weepy words and snotty tissues. She glanced to him a few times only to find a perplexing smirk on his face. _Bastard_ , she thought with a fleeting irritation. _Why doesn't he look sadder? I should have refused to shag him this morning…_

Of course, that was a ridiculous notion. She couldn't resist him—a universal truth, to steal Jane Austen's turn of phrase.

She turned to look out of the window. It then occurred to her that they had been driving for far longer than the fifteen or twenty minutes it should have taken to get to the airport. The clock on the dash confirmed this. "Mark," she said, breaking the silence, "shouldn't we be there by now?"

"What do you mean," he began mysteriously, "when you say 'there'?"

_Oh God_ , she thought. _He's snapped at last and is—_

He began to chuckle, interrupting her thoughts. "You don't have to look like I'm about to butcher you, darling," he said. "This is a little surprise."

"What is?"

"Enjoy the scenery," he said with more of that air of intrigue. "It's a long way to Calais."

"Calais?" she repeated. "Isn't that in France?"

" _Oui_ ," he said. He shot her a look, that same smirk still playing on his lips.

Calais, across the English Channel from Dover. _Oh my God_ , she thought.

"Mark," she said tentatively. "Are you driving me back to London?"

"Don't be silly," he said, then after a playful pause, added, "I'm driving _us_ back to London." Before she could object, he said, "There's beautiful scenery; this car practically drives itself; and… well, it gives me more time with you."

This made her smile—what a lovely surprise, indeed. Then she felt depressed all over again: "Before you go back to Liberia," she said. Surely he could fly out of London just as easily as out of Rotterdam. Then it'd be three weeks until she saw him again. Maybe more.

"Well," he said, stretching the word out to taunting lengths. "I was thinking more like, 'Before work on Monday morning.'"

"Mark Darcy!" she said. "Say what you mean and stop taking the piss."

He laughed, reaching to place his hand on her leg, patting her in such a way that she would have thought it condescending if she hadn't liked it so much. "I got the word about the middle of my week with you that it had become too dangerous for me to return, that I'd have to do my work from elsewhere. Might as well be from London."

"You don't have to go back?" she asked.

"I don't have to go back, darling, no." He squeezed his hand on her thigh. "We can have dinner then stay the night in Calais, then make the rest of the drive tomorrow."

She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. "If you weren't driving," she said into his ear, "I'd have you right now."

He swerved a bit on the road.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> [The Manhattan Hotel Rotterdam](http://www.hotels.nl/rotterdam/westin/) is the only five-star hotel in Rotterdam… so of course, Mark stays there. :)


End file.
